Measels
by Naja Melanoleuca
Summary: Measels hit Minis Tirith and no one is spared, not even the Steward. A short story where Denethor actually likes his children and Boromir and Faramir act like normal kids.


A/N This story takes place when Boromir is 9, Lina is 7, and Faramir is 4. It is set about six months after Finduilas died. This is sort of a side scene to the Eagles of Gondor story. Also, I know the master said they didn't get sick, and that even I said that Denethor never got sick, but after watching my sister's husband with her kids I thought up this story and just had to find someway to make it work. Hope you enjoy it.

For those who have never seen the Eagles of Gondor series, Lina is Denethor and Finduilas's daughter. She is three years younger then Boromir and almost two older than Faramir. She is mildly mentally retarded. In my series the two also had another daughter named Gwendolyn, who died from the plague when she was a baby.

Finally, Denethor has the ability to read hearts and minds of others in the books. I took it one step forward and gave him a sort of primitive psychic ability that he has little control over.

-Naja

I own none of this and receive nothing but gratification for writing it.

**Measels part 1**

Denethor, Steward of Gondor, rubbed his tired yes and refocused on the report he was reading. He had been home for two weeks from war and there was a never ending supply of paper work, counsel session, pleas, and other assorted assignments that needed his attention. Then of course there were his children. They had basically been without their father for nearly four months straight. Though the war had been won in less than a month, there was still the planning and travel associated with it. Luckily they had their Aunt Lizzy to watch over them while he was gone. She was the next best thing to a mother for them since their mother had died.

The Steward purposely turned his thoughts away from dreary ponderings of Finduilas's death. He knew dwelling on that would only leave him depressed and irritable or more so than usual. So with sigh he turned his attention back to the report in hopes of getting to bed before 3am. He hadn't had more than two hours sleep together in months and it was starting to wear on him. His head pounded from exhaustion and his eyes felt hot, tired, and gritty. His concentration was waivering just when he needed to be able to focus. So he stood and stretched his long lanky frame until the joints in his back cracked. It felt good and he returned to the report.

When he was nearly finished with the stack of reports he had allotted to finish that day, he felt something tug on the side of his tunic and he looked down to see the flushed face of his eldest son, Boromir. He smiled at the lad and swiveled his chair around so that he was facing his son. Boromir climbed into his lap and burrowed against his chest, twining his little fingers into Denethor's wavy hair.

Denethor began to worry because this was most unlike his eldest. Boromir was a fiercely independent child and normally would not sanction being held like this unless something was dreadfully wrong. The last time he could remember the boy being this clingy was just after their mother had died. Now Faramir or Lina on the other hand would always try to climb in his lap, but not Boromir.

"What's wrong, little one?" Denethor questioned quietly. He ran his hand over Boromir's forehead and pushed his hair back with his gloved hand. The hair looked damp and lank and he felt heat radiating off of the boy even through is gloves.

"Don't feel good, Daddy." Borormir mumbled as he cuddled closer to his father's chest.

"Well, you don't feel well." Denethor corrected absent mindedly.

"I don't feel that either." Boromir pouted.

"Why don't you fell well?" Denethor questioned.

"My head hurts and I feel hot and dizzy. My eyes hurt. And my stomach feels funny and hurts." The little boy sounded on the verge of tears. "And Faramir is crying in his bed and I think Lina is too."

Denethor pushed the blonde hair back and rested his own cheek against Boromir's forehead. He could immediately feel his son's unhappiness and slight fear. The boy was also burning with fever. Denethor began to panic mildly. Being a full blooded Numenorian, he had little experience with illness. He himself had only been ill from disease once in his entire fifty plus years of life and that had been when he was two. He knew conceptually that they could get sick, especially when they were young but it had been so long since illness of this type had touched his house. But he could still remember it clearly. One didn't forget the loss of child that easily no matter how they tried.

"Well, lets get you back to bed and check on the others." Denethor said calmly as he went to place the lad back on his feet, but thought better of it and held his son close. Boromir wrapped his legs around his father's waist and rested his head against the man's shoulder. Denethor rubbed his back soothingly as he carried him back to the nursery rooms.

The nursery was a cleverly designed set of rooms that were arranged to allow the children to have as much fun as they wanted without bothering their parents. After all, it was generally considered very gauche in Gondorian society for parents to have anything to do with their children until they were older. There was a central octagon shaped playroom with a high ceiling, many windows, and thick carpets from to wall. Large comfy couches were placed against the walls and the fire was behind 100 pound stone grate that could not be moved by children. Low window seats were placed under each window so that the children could look out at the courtyard and the White Tree. There were also several rooms attached to the central rooms that were for sleeping and lessons. Boromir and Faramir still shared a room; even though Boromir was old enough for a room of his own he insisted on sharing with his brother because of Faramir's penchant for nightmares. Across the playroom from the boys' room was Lina, his daughter's room.

Denethor hadn't had a playroom like this when he was growing up, in fact, he hadn't been allowed to play at all. He was in lessons by the time he was three and acting as scribe in counsel by the time he was five. He sometimes wondered if he spoiled his children too much. Then there had been other unpleasantness during his childhood that rendered him much more mature than his years. Consequently, he was never very comfortable being in the playroom so he quickly walked through it back to the boys' room.

He heard his other son whimpering before he even reached the door. The sound was heart wrenching and he quickened his pace. He gently laid Boromir down on his bed and tucked him in lovingly and then crossed the room to his other son, Faramir. The little boy looked up at him and mewled, "Daddy," in a quite mournful fashion and Denethor instantly scooped up the superheated bundle and rocked him back and forth. His youngest was also burning with fever and described symptoms much like his brothers only his throat hurt but his stomach felt fine.

He gently rocked Faramir until the lad began to doze and then he laid him beside Boromir in his larger bed. He then silently crept out of the room and headed to check on Lina. His middle child and only surviving daughter, was also awake and fussy from illness. He gathered her into a hug and carried her into the boys' room and placed her in Faramir's now vacated bed. He then set about finding basins, clothes, and cool water to bathe their brows.

The Steward's ministrations worked for a few hours but then Boromir and Lina began to vomit and Faramir was restless and fussy in his fever. Each wanted to be held by him and became resentful when they were not. Denethor was at the end of his rope and feeling very out of his element. The only other time any of his children had been sick was when the plague had gone through Minas Tirith seven years ago and his elder daughter Gwendolyn had caught it and subsequently died from it. She hadn't even been two years old yet and so was a much calmer and quieter patient than any of these three.

It was times like this he missed Finduilas the most. When she had been dying, he figured he would miss her most at night when he was alone but it turned out her absence was most obvious to him when the entire family was together. She had been the one who was good with kids, he was not equipped to be a parent beyond the time of their conception. She was the nurturer and the caretaker. In fact, they gotten to know one and other and fallen in love while she cared for him after he had taken an arrow in the shoulder while helping to defend Dol Amroth. If she were here now, she would know what to do. He on the other hand was considering running away and hiding under his bed. Give him rampaging wargs any day over sick, leaky, runny, whining, children. Especially his own children, anyone else's children he could ignore, but he was saddled with an instinctual imperative to try and make his own feel better.

As dawn began to approach and they were getting worse, not better he began to get desperate. He cursed the fact his sister Lizzy had gone to visit their other sister in mountains and wasn't here. Not knowing what else to do, and realizing that he would have to leave for Counsel in a few hours he searched the room for a quill and parchment. After fifteen minutes of failure he gave up and used a red wax crayon and part of a colouring book page and sketched a brief note. He then summoned a rather tired looking page.

"Take this down to the houses of healing and give it to the hands of Mistress Ioreth immediately. And wait for a reply." He shoed the young lad off and closed the door. It seemed the second he turned around all three started fussing again and he bit the inside of his cheek and reminded himself that if he could face down the Nazgul then he could deal with his children when they were ill.

On the fifth circle, the page made his way into the Houses of Healing. The air inside seemed close and warm after the frigid temperatures of the predawn air. He asked on of the nighttime attendants where he could find Ioreth.

"Leave the message with me and I will see it delivered when she arrives." The thin young nurse said.

"My orders were to deliver it to her hands and wait for a reply."

"Well she is asleep and would not want to be disturbed."

"But, ma'am. The Lord Denethor bade me to deliver it to her alone." The boy was becoming quite worried what the often surly Steward would do to him if he failed in his mission, something unpleasant no doubt.

"Where is the Steward's seal if it is from his desk?" The woman asked haughtily. She figured it was just a prank being pulled on her because she was newly come here from Lossenarch.

"He was not in his office when he wrote it, ma'am. He was in his children's room." He handed her the note, hoping she would recognize Denethor's rather distinctive writing.

She unfolded the note and red through the red scribbling on it. "This is from the Steward? How stupid do you think I am? You expect me to wake Ioreth in the middle of the night to give her a bogus message?"

She

"But it is for Ioreth and I cannot leave until I give it to her hands." Just then, a door opened and a tall boney woman came out. She was pale and her long braid was raven's wing black. Her eyes were armor grey and her nose was long and pointed. All in all, she looked like a female version of Denethor.

"What is all this talk of needing to give me a message?" She asked as she strode over purposefully. She raised on eyebrow and cocked her head to the side just like Denethor did.

"Ioreth? "The page questioned, he had never met her before, but had heard her name mentioned with much fear and respect.

"Aye, now why did you wake me at this ungodly hour?"

"I have a message from His Lord Denethor, Son of Ecthilion twenty sixth ruling Steward of..."

"I get the idea. Give me the message." She took the note in her bony hands and the boy marveled at how shiny and chapped they were from being washed so many times a day.

"That useless man. Why won't he quit being so damn stubborn and remarry instead of bothering me at all hours of the night. You would think that the leader of Gondor would have more sense than a mule..." The healer could be heard muttering as she headed back her room to change and gather supplies to take to the Citadel.

While waiting for Ioreth to arrive, Denethor was not having a good time. Lina had puked on his shoulder and then Faramir had had a dreadful nightmare and refused to let him go. Boromir grumbled and whined at the disturbance to his rest and that only made Faramir cry harder. Denethor had just gotten them settled and fresh cold compresses on all of their tiny foreheads when Ioreth arrived.

She looked around and then turned to Denethor. "Brother." She greeted as she took in his pale disheveled appearance and the look of his children.

"Sister, help! My children are ill and I don't know what to do for them." Ioreth tried to hide the smile that wanted to play across her lips. She always took great pleasure in watching her older half brother anytime he was flustered. This may almost beat how frantic he was during Boromir's birth. She had seen her brother face down Nazgul, wizards, councilors, and orcs with quiet dignity but almost anything that had to do with home, hearth, and heart sent him into a near panic attack. She couldn't really blame him though. They had different mothers but shared the same father, Ecthilion. She was a bastard and her mother had been an laundress in the Houses of Healing. Ecthilion had been a philandering prig, who was beloved by the people but despised by his family. The man had been cruel and petty and held no love for any of his children legitimate or otherwise. She had been lucky because her mother had been a kind loving woman that raised her to be caring and compassionate of others. Denethor's mother had been a lunatic who had killed herself in front of him. She wasn't surprised that he didn't know what to do with ill children. She would gladly help him if for no other reason than he had paid her way through healing school. She supposed a night or two of disturbed sleep could be tolerated after everything he had done for her.

"Let me take a look at them then." She moved first to Lina, the middle one. Charelina, or Lina for short, was a beautiful dark haired girl of seven years with grey eyes like her granddaddy. The only problem was that there was little sense behind them. Finduilas had taken a terrible fever when she was pregnant with Lina and had delivered her almost a month early, which had led to a rather unpleasant rumor that Lina was not Denethor's natural daughter. Because of these problems early in life, she was now mentally slow but very loving and Denethor didn't seem to mind a bit.

Ioreth then moved on to Boromir. The Eldest, by nearly three years was a sturdy and fair looking young boy. He had his mother's blonde hair and green eyes even if they were tempered by his father's platinum grey eyes and dark hair. He was active and constantly on the move and asking questioned. He would be a heart breaker when he was older and a good soldier. But personality wise, he reminded her of Captain Thorongil more than anyone with his quick sense of humor and love of fighting and adventure.

Finally there was the youngest by nearly five years, Faramir. At just shy of five years at the moment, he seemed very young and small next to the very tall Steward. His reddish brown hair was plastered to his head by sweat and the cool compress and his grey eyes were glassy. The youngest was clearly his father's son. Faramir had a restless inquisitive mind that was a dead ringer for Denethor. This likeness to one and other would either make them very close or drive them apart in the future she wagered.

As she finished her exams she stood up and began to pack up her things. She then turned to Denethor who was bathing Lina's fevered brow. "Have they been near Balafour?"

"Aye, I picked them up from Dol Amroth a week ago and we stayed overnight in Balfour. Why." He asked as he rubbed his own pounding head. He was so tired he felt like he would give up his eyes for a nap before morning counsel. Then Faramir whined and Denethor rose to go to his side and replace the damp cloth and seriously doubted he would get any sleep in the next few hours.

"I see. Well. The good news is it isn't fatal, the bad news is they have the measles. There as been an outbreak of them in Balfour and around it for some weeks now. It doesn't surprise me that they picked it up. They shall have to stay in there rooms for at least a week maybe more." She said as she critically watched her brother.

"Measles, is it serious?"

"No, not really. It just one of those annoying childhood illnesses that normal mortals not from the Citadel have to deal with." She smiled at her half brother. She knew it annoyed him when she acted like he was a different species just because he had been raised in the House of the Stewards rather than in a normal house.

"How long does it last?"

"Usually the fever lasts for two to three days and then the rash lasts for another three to five days."

"Rash?" Denethor questioned as he felt his stomach do a flip. One little known secret about the mighty Steward was that he was squeamish about rashes and broken bones. He didn't know why, they just grossed him out.

" "Yes, rash. It starts on the neck and then moves down the rest of the body. Don't worry, it doesn't weep or anything just little raised bumps."

"I see." He swallowed and tried to think of something else like his paperwork. He then went and banked up the fire because he thought if felt like it was freezing in the room. He felt himself shiver when he wasn't thinking about stopping it and figured that it must be terribly cold for his children if even he was cold.

The two waited quietly for a half an hour as he sat with the boys and tried to cool them and she worked on Lina. It seemed that the illness had finally tired them out and they were sleeping more peacefully. Denethor looked to the water clock and realized that he had to go and bathe and get ready for his day. He had a meeting with one of his Captains in the barracks just after dawn, then a meeting with his quartermaster before breakfast. Then a quick breakfast and morning counsel. Then lunch and afternoon pleas. Then a meeting with the guildmasters and then dinner with the some engineers about improving the roads, then a war counsel with his Captains in general, next was to stop off and read a bedtime story to his kids then retire to his study to catch up on paper work until 2:30 or 3 and then sleep for two hours and the whole mess started again the next day.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, feeling achingly tired just thinking about it. "Will you stay with them until I can arrange for a nurse? I need to go get ready for my meetings." Denethor asked as he rose from the seat beside Boromir's bed. As he stood he felt like the world had just dropped out from under him and he had somehow ended up on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm. He shook his head for a moment and pounding replaced the spinning feeling and he counted it a blessing.

"Den, are you alright?" Ioreth asked. He had looked pale, even for him, all night but she had just assumed it was from worry. She hadn't missed the way he kept rubbing at his eyes or the way he rubbed at his head like he had a headache either. She had also noticed his shivering. The final straw was when he had stood up and turned white as a corpse and looked like he was going to faint. She had rushed to his side and put a steadying grip on his arm.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just a touch of a headache from being tired. Nothing to worry about." He demurred as he coughed slightly without realizing it.

"Really?" She could feel the heat rising from him even through his clothes. She raised a hand to feel his face and check his temperature, which he of course flinched away from. "Hold still." She commanded as she raised the underside of her wrist to feel his cheek and forehead. Yup, he had a fever all right. "Your not going anywhere, except to bed, brother."

"What, I have to go and run the bloody country, remember." He snapped. He knew he would be fine if he could just get rid of this bloody headache that made him feel like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

"The bloody country can wait. You are sick."

"That is ridiculous, I am not. I don't get sick."

"Well you are now. And you aren't an elf who is immune to illness, you are just resistant to it and as ragged as you have been running yourself lately I am not surprised you are ill. You would have much less to do if you just remarried so you had someone to take care of the household things."

"I am not getting remarried. I told you that. Give up."

"Fine, fine, but you are sick and you are going to bed." She placated him. This was an old argument they had been having since two months after Finduilus had died. Ioreth herself had never been in love and she couldn't understand why Denethor would remain faithful to a woman who was cold in the ground, or in her case cremated and scattered along the shores of Dol Amroth. She wanted her brother to find someone new so that he wouldn't be lonely anymore and he would smile again like he did when Fin was around. But he was as stubborn about that as he was about everything.

"I am not sick and I am not going to bed. I have to work."

"Fine. If you can bend over and touch your toes for five seconds and then stand back up I will leave you alone." She knew damn well he wouldn't be able to do it without a great deal of pain so she watched to see how stubborn he was going to be about it.

"Ok." Denethor bent at the waist and immediately felt blood rush to his head, making it pound with almost migraine like force. But he clearly counted to five and then stood back up. That was when the problems started. The room greyed out and he nearly swooned. Nothing short of willpower kept him on his feet but it did not stop a small groan from escaping his lips.

"I thought so. Denethor, you are ill and need to rest. Now go to bed and I will move the young ones into your room with you. That bed or yours his big enough for six people, much less you and three younglings." She soothed.

"But I don't have time to be sick. I have meetings with my captains and Guildmasters and pleas that I have been putting off while at war." He trailed off as pounding in his head forced him to clamp his teeth shut to stop from moaning.

"I know, but the city ran while you were away and it can run for a few days while you rest and get better." She began to propel him towards the door.

"But I can ignore it and work through it. I have had much worse pains and still worked." He stopped part way out of the door.

"Yes, you have, but now you are contagious and can give this to others who haven't already had it. And though it is nothing more than an inconvience for you, to the very young, elderly, or ladies with child it can be deadly. Not to mention you will just prolong your own recovery."

"How young? Is Faramir in danger? Should I have him moved down to the Houses of Healing?"

"No. Don't worry. This trifle won't take him from you. This is nothing compared to the plague that Gwendolyn had. Now go and rest."

"But."

"But nothing. You must set a good example for your children by following my advice. Now go to bed." She growled. As soon as he left she turned around and half laughed and half sighed. Denethor was a stubborn man who was never very good at letting anyone take care of him or admitting he had a weakness. She didn't blame him. Any weakness real or perceived would have just brought down Ecthilion's rage, but still. The next few days would be interesting.


End file.
